


The Red, It Filters Through (My Memories Of Us)

by valsedenuit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adrenaline, And John is easily embarassed, Angst, Clothed Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, In which Sherlock dislikes labelling things, John's Red Pants, Just to keep you on your toes, M/M, Parting Ways, Pre Reichenbach, Red Pants Contest, With a bit of Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valsedenuit/pseuds/valsedenuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny, isn't it, how a handful of woven cotton and banded elastic can come to mean so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red, It Filters Through (My Memories Of Us)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com) and [FuckYeahJohnlockFanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com)'s [Red Pants Contest](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/post/31151405604/reapersun-and-fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic-are-proud-to). Officially the longest and most explicit piece of fanfiction I've ever written.
> 
> My most heartfelt thanks goes to ever-lovely [abbykate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/abbykate) for being such a keen observer and a good friend; and to [aristophrenic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristophrenic/pseuds/Aristophrenic) for helpfully pointing out my Canadianisms.

John Watson was once a sentimental man, but returning from Afghanistan, he soon realised just how thoroughly the hot, ringing thunder of bombs and the ghost of bullet shells grazing one's cheek changes things. It worms its way into the mind, the body, and leaves no room for poems and picked flowers, only matter-of-factness.

It takes John by surprise, then, when he finds himself sitting on the edge of Sherlock's old bed, meticuously refolding a worn pair of red underwear. He runs his fingers over the pilling cotton, eyes and brain absently recording the unintended variegations of opacity in the fabric. He lets his fingernails graze over the stretched-out waistband, and the sound gives him chills.

He smooths the pair of pants over his knees, a dull ache rising in his chest, and sighs.

John places them on the bottom corner of the bed, a tiny square of crimson on a slate of neutral stripes.

He sits quietly for a moment, then leaves.

***

"Do you think they suspect anything?"

John spoke aloud, not really caring if Sherlock could hear him over the sound of running water as he scrubbed his hands vigorously. He wasn't actually worried about gunpowder traces on his fingers, but he liked the excuse of handwashing because it gave him a moment to himself. A moment to process.

He'd just killed a man. John Watson, soldier and doctor, committed to preserving life, had just taken the life of another human being. For his flatmate. A man he'd known for less than forty-eight hours and, if questioned about him, couldn't offer any information other than his name and how irritated everyone within thirty feet of him became when he opened his mouth.

And yet... every molecule in his body was still reverberating, buzzing with adrenaline and happiness and relief, such _enormous_ and overwhelming relief, because he was pretty sure he'd just saved the life of the one man in the entirety of London that didn't treat him like a china doll.

John had decided, somewhere between pulling the trigger on the murderer and stuffing Chinese into his mouth amid fits of laughter, that he could deal with the body parts in the fridge, the pacing footsteps at 3am, the constant remarks about his lesser intelligence; all of these things were trifles because Sherlock wasn't trying to coddle him. Did Sherlock treat him like a walking test subject? Definitely. But he remained dark and mysterious, incomprehensible most of the time, rushing through life at the speed of sound. He wanted John along for the ride, but he made no effort to slow himself down. He expected John to keep up. A challenge, a test. _If you want to be fixed, John, you'll need to work for it yourself._

And wasn't that something.

John turned the tap off and slowly dried his hands. He was content, and the adrenaline had dissipated enough for his body to soften, the beginning of sleep creeping into his fingers and toes. Dragging his feet, he switched off the bathroom light and made it about three steps towards the kitchen before he felt a warm presence behind him.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was about an octave lower than usual; it had that breathless edge, the one John already recognised as the one that emerged when Sherlock had solved a difficult mental puzzle. John's mind was confused but his body sung in response, thrilling at the combination of his name with that prized reaction.

Both men stood incredibly still in the dimly-lit hallway, breathing in an almost-rhythm.

"Yeah."

He was unsure why it came out as a statement, and not a question.

There was a wide, warm hand on his shoulder, and he was being turned, before the same hand creeped up to the nape of his neck and Sherlock pressed into him, full-bodied, tipping John's head up and grazing his lips with his own. A shiver went down John's spine as Sherlock's fingers scratched at his hairline. He inhaled sharply though his nose, and it was all musk and smoke and a little gunpowder, and maybe a bit of blood, and he was dizzy, and Sherlock was moving his lips on his, warm and insistent and sucking a bit, and didn't that just feel _terribly nice_.

John hummed a bit as Sherlock walked forward, backing him against the striped wall, and they were touching all along their bodies again, and _yes, this was very nice, actually quite wonderful_. He slid his hands underneath Sherlock's coat and jacket and found his waist and squeezed softly, eliciting a huff and increased pressure on his neck, which suited him just fine, because it meant their lips dragged together differently. When Sherlock's tongue passed over his mouth he parted his lips without a second thought, except maybe the thought that was beginning to nag at him now, which was that he wasn't gay. He wasn't. This was so pleasant... but definitely gay. Very, very gay.

"Sherlock," he managed, as the consulting detective moved to nibble at his jawline. "What -"

"You're overthinking, John," came Sherlock's voice from near his ear, accompanied by a caress of warm air and _why was it suddenly so hard to stand upright?_

"No, I'm not," John said, letting his arms fall to his sides and trying to gain control, even though his mind was fluttering between _not gay_ and the burning warmth of Sherlock's ear against his cheek, the pressure of Sherlock's lower abdomen against his ribs at every inhale. "I'm not... this is, I've never..."

Sherlock straightened then, keeping their bodies close, but drawing his head far enough away that John could vaguely see the shape of his face in the dark. His eyes hadn't yet adjusted from his trrip to the bathroom. _Hadn't that been only a few seconds ago?_

"Your need for labels is exhausting," said Sherlock. He sounded exasperated.

"I'm not gay," said John.

"I never said you were."

"You kissed me."

"And you seemed to be enjoying it. Weren't you?"

This made John flush, warmth spreading along his torso, and creeping lower. The tone of Sherlock's voice was still low, but unguarded; a genuine question. John deflected it.

"You're married to your work."

There was a pause, as Sherlock mulled over this consideration. They were both still resting against the wall, John sandwiched between it and a mass of lean, warm muscle. He was pretty sure Sherlock could feel the heat emanating from his cheeks.

"That's true," Sherlock said finally. "Still, I have collected new data."

"And what would that data be?"

Sherlock took a long breath and held it in. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, so soft that it blended with the far off sound of traffic on Baker Street.

"You... killed a man," he said slowly, weighing the words in his mouth. "For me."

"I had to," John said.

And there it was, the crux of the matter.

John had shot the murderer. It wasn't because he was a criminal, but because if he hadn't, Sherlock would have been dead, and all of John's hope, ignited in the last two days by brilliant deductions and taxi chases and forgotten canes, would have died with him.

In the end, John thought, it didn't matter if he was gay or straight or whatever the hell else, because he needed Sherlock and his danger like he needed air and sleep. He couldn't bear it if he only got a taste before this new life was taken away from him, and if he was honest with himself, he _had_ been enjoying the kiss, because Sherlock was warm and tall and quite possibly the most frustrating and fascinating person John had ever met, and that was exciting, and _fuck it_ if he wasn't unbearably turned on by the slim, angular body still pressed up against him, and he couldn't deny that every particle in his broken soldier's body cried out in sheer exhilaration at the thought of Sherlock wanting him, _needing_ _him_ in the same way, and they were still alive, _so alive_ , and everything was whirring and buzzing and suddenly it was all fine and John just needed _more_ , to bury himself in that lithe frame before his chest burst open from relief and desire.

"John -"

That was all Sherlock managed to get out before he was forcibly tugged down by his coat collar into a searing kiss.

John felt Sherlock's moan rumble across into his chest, and sighed as Sherlock shoved him into the wall a bit more, because _oh yes, this was pretty much perfect_.

Sherlock kissed him soundly, all soft lips and curious teeth, then resumed his earlier trail on his neck. The taller man's curls kept tickling John's jaw, and it was just about halfway between irritating and arousing. John snaked his arms around Sherlock's waist again and tugged him closer, although he wasn't sure it was possible, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try. At the same time, he stood on his tiptoes slightly, to ease the angle on his neck. The resulting shift moved their hips and -

"Ungh, jesus," he bit out, because how their hips were now aligned and Sherlock had groaned into his neck, and decided he liked that sensation _very much_ because now he was grinding into John in slow, maddening circles, and John threw his head back which pretty much negated the effect of being on his toes, but he found he didn't care. The buckles on their belts clanged together amidst their panting breaths and the sliding of fabric, and John's buckle kept digging uncomfortably into his skin, but he couldn't be bothered to do anything about it while Sherlock was making those _fucking delicious_ little noises each time their half-hard cocks rubbed up against each other.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped moving. He made a frustrated sound, and stepped back.

John was about to ask him what was wrong before he saw Sherlock's fingers, clearer now as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, begin to unfasten his belt. "Sherlock?" It wasn't really a question, or maybe it was, he couldn't tell because it suddenly became difficult to breathe and _oh god, was this really happening_ , and John mostly hoped it was because he wasn't quite finished trying to absorb this utterly maddening man by way of osmosis.

"Step out of them," Sherlock said, gesturing his mop of curls in the direction of John's trousers, which were now being pulled down to the floor. John did as he was told, bracing himself slightly against the wall behind him, and Sherlock, standing upright, undid his own and slid them halfway down his thighs.

He leaned forward to kiss John once more, their noses barely brushing, but stopped, tipped his head downward, and chuckled.

"Wha -" John began, before looking down himself. He was now fully hard, tenting his pants and _oh shit, why was he wearing these_?

He glanced over at Sherlock's hips, noticing the ( _oh_ ) large bulge in what appeared to be a very simple pair of black boxer shorts. _Of course_ , John thought. He hadn't exactly planned to be standing in his hallway snogging his flatmate with his trousers pulled down, so John hadn't bothered to notice what pants he put on, and of course they were the most embarassing he owned. Bright red with white lining, almost a cartoon caricature of little boy's underwear, and quite old; a remnant from his university days. They were worn thin in spots, particularly right over the centre, which was made apparent by the way the fabric was appallingly sheer over his straining cock. John couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes.

"Rugby," he offered,sheepish.

"Sentiment," Sherlock stated. John thought he sounded like he was suppressing laughter.

John closed his eyes, blushing, then took a sudden and shaky breath when he felt two impossibly long fingers dip beneath the waistband and trail along the edge, on the inside, smooth knuckles and nails brushing against the beginnings of hair above his groin. He opened his eyes as far as he could manage, which wasn't very much, and watched Sherlock in the darkness as he felt himself be studied, like a piece of evidence lying on a cold examination table.

"John Watson," Sherlock said, his voice reverent, "you are endlessly puzzling." He let the waistband of John's pants snap back as he removed his fingers, chuckling at the sound it made. " I look forward to taking you apart to see how you work."

"Like hell you will," John retorted.

Sherlock barked out a laugh and closed in, kissing John again ( _finally_ ) and lightly running his hands up the back of John's thighs, tucking his hands underneath the seat of the pants. In one swift movement, Sherlock lifted John by the buttocks and pressed up against him once more, pinning him to the wall.

"Hey, Sherl -! Unnghhh, ahh, nevermind," John breathed out, indignance promptly stifled by tingling pleasure that spread out from his groin as Sherlock began to thrust, ever so slowly, against him. Nothing but two layers of thin cotton separated Sherlock's penis from John's as he rocked his hips back and forth, sliding them teasingly against one another.

"Oh, ohhhh," Sherlock groaned, panting moist breath against John's cheek. They rested their foreheads together, noses brushing and hot air passing between their slack, open mouths. John hands gripped at Sherlock's shoulder blades, fingers flexing and relaxing with each lazy thrust.

John shifted slightly and _fuck_ that was wonderful, because now his erection had slipped out at the top of his stupid red pants and was rubbing against Sherlock's, which he hadn't noticed had done the same, and it was hot and slippery with pre-come and every other thrust rubbed up right against _bloody perfect_ spot under the head and _ungh, yes_ , that was fantastic, _don't stop, jesus, fuck_.

John looked up from Sherlock's heaving chest to his eyes, unfocused and fluttering shut every few seconds, and couldn't help but smile.

"Amazing," he gasped when Sherlock hit the sensitive spot again, and all the warmth was rising, up into his chest, spreading outward with each steady slide of skin on skin.

"Tell me again," Sherlock pleaded. John felt the detective's face against his, tense and relaxing in quick intervals, his eyes now screwed shut.

"Brilliant," said John. _Yes, there, almost_.

"Again."

"Fantastic." _Oh god, there it is, here it comes_ -

"Ag-" Sherlock's demand was transformed into a loud "ahh" as John snuck his hand between them and grasped the heads of both their cocks, squeezing them into his fist. One, two more thrusts and suddenly John was too big for his body, everything was bursting inside, his stomach tensed almost painfully and he doubled forward as he came with a moan, over his own fist and Sherlock's shirt, all tension seeping out of his body in the process. He decided the sudden wet warmth on his stomach meant Sherlock had come too, but his head was too full of static to register much else.

When he was able to move, he reached for the floor tentatively with his legs, and Sherlock, whose face was buried in John's shirt collar, lowered him down until his feet touched the carpet. John nuzzled his face into Sherlock's hair contentedly, not giving any serious thought to his thoroughly disheveled state, Sherlock's semen on his new gingham shirt or his sullied old, horrible red pants - the latter of which still embarassed him, but, _well_ , he would _have_ to keep them now, as a reminder of this... thing, he wasn't sure quite what is was yet, that had just transpired.

Sherlock and John straightened up, still breathing heavily, and gazed at each other silently for a few seconds before bursting into a raucous fit of laughter, which would surely earn them a few curious looks from Mrs Hudson next time she was over for tea. 

***

"You should wear them more often," Sherlock teased him. He loved seeing John blush, especially if was a result of both embarassment and arousal. The physiology fascinated him.

"Not a chance," John always replied.

Truth be told, he didn't like wearing them, but every time he got a glimpse of the red pants sitting at the bottom of his sock drawer, John couldn't help but grin.

 

***

He only wore them twice, in the end.

Sherlock came home very late that night. He'd said he had something he needed to do, and he hadn't let John come with him. That was the first warning sign. Sherlock's clothes smelled of his disinfectant, that tell-tale almost sickening smell of cleanliness that clings to the skin. _He went to Barts, then_. The detective didn't say a word, just sat down his chair and busied himself with his violin case. He stared past John with vacant eyes, the violin coming to rest upright in his lap. His fingers ghosted on the strings as if needing the movement, the muscle memory, but acknowledging that the sound, usually soothing, would prove too distracting for his thoughts.

"Sherlock," John said, attempting to get his attention.

He was on edge. John had stormed out of the Diogenes Club after he'd confirmed what Mycroft had done, gone and blabbed about Sherlock to a criminal mastermind, _how fucking stupid could he have been?_ He couldn't shake it off. He paced around the flat, opening cupboards and fiddling with things, needing to stay mobile. The more he moved, the more he could ignore the anger rising in his chest, and the nagging feeling of apprehension that was slowly suffocating him from the inside.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's stillness worried him. Even when seated, Sherlock was always in motion, like atoms, buzzing away in a constant flux of energy. John had learnd to deduce his thought process in his posture, the way his lips twitched or his eyelids fluttered. But now? He was unreadable, stone-cold. He sat in the orange-tinged living room, his skin looking pale despite the warm hue, the very picture of a ghost but somehow still resolutely living. A _trompe-l'oeil_.

John came around the back of the chair, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and worrying small circles into the fabric of his shirt. Still, there was no response. _Not good_. Sherlock typically responded to touch, mostly negatively unless it was John doing the touching. Something was very wrong, so wrong that Sherlock was shutting the world out, _shutting John out_. It wasn't to isolate his thoughts - he'd have made some dismissing gesture if that was the case - but it was, John gathered, an attempt to freeze them, freeze everything, to stop time in its tracks. Only Sherlock would believe himself capable of it.

John circled around the chair to stand, facing Sherlock, at about a foot's distance. He waved his hands in front of Sherlock's face. He bent over and rubbed Sherlock's knees, his thighs. He placed quick kisses on the detective's jaw, his cheeks, his nose, his hair, murmuring those lines from his old anatomy textbook that he'd learned, by complete fluke on winter morning, pushed Sherlock's buttons in all the right ways.

Still no response. Sherlock did not move, or speak, or even really _look_ at John. His eyes focused instead on the doorway.

The sickening feeling rising in John's throat couldn't be helped. He was frightened, he had been angry just a few moments ago, but he was starting to panic now, because this wasn't the Sherlock he knew, the Sherlock he'd been living with for over a year. Or was it? There wasn't enough air suddenly, and John stumbled back, and he could feel the tremor in his hand return. He tried desperately to stop it, tucking it under his right arm, because everything was suddenly _not fine_ and scarier than any case they'd faced so far.

Why was Sherlock was chosing to shut him out? He had no reason to cut him off so strongly, so fully, if John wasn't going to be negatively affected by being let in on Sherlock's thoughts. He'd seen enough violent deaths, witnessed enough sociopathic hell-bent minds that John was fairly certain he'd be able to handle any new threat that might have shown up. Even Moriarty, the thought of whom once shook John to his core, was just another enemy in the constant battle he and Sherlock were fighting. But Sherlock _knew_ this, he knew John like the back of his hand, had him all figured out; in fact, he must know by now that the only thing that could really ever cause John any real pain, any irreparable damage, was -

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

_He's leaving._

_He's going and he's leaving me behind._

It hit John like a wave, and he almost staggered from the force of it.

No more chaos, running, distraction. No more peaceful nights, warm angular bodies, skin and smoke lingering on the sheets, tea at midnight, violin in the blue light of morning, body-shaped dents in the hallway walls, bodies buzzing with adrenaline and something as close to oneness as he could ever have fathomed...

The immensity of the moment tore itself through John, heart and throat and lungs burning.

He couldn't do it, he couldn't just go back to his" life", a life he barely remembered before Sherlock. He had been miserable; it was all a grey blur, but the sense of hopelessness he'd felt back then still stung, fresh and searing like a papercut. That's when Sherlock had arrived and brought _relief_ , sweet and clear; he had fixed him, he had thrown him back into the fray when others had tried to bandage wounds that could only be cured with racing hearts and feet pounding on pavement, guns in hands and mysteries unravelling in the cleverest of ways.

The worst part of it all was that John knew, he _knew_ with a certainty that threatened to crush him until his bones crumpled into dust, that Sherlock was stubborn and would do it anyway, no matter how much John pleaded with him not to. He was powerless to stop it. Totally useless. Crippled once more.

The nausea rose up again, and it coursed through John for a few moments before he choked it down, and steeled his composure like he had learned while on the run on those wretched, sunny days in a different land.

That was it, then. Sherlock was leaving.

For tonight, though, it seemed that Sherlock would stay here, at Baker Street. With John.

One last night of certainty before it all might fall apart.

John turned and walked up the stairs to his bedroom, returning to the living room a few minutes later. He might never know what Sherlock had planned, but he refused to be ignored.

John's shaking hands slowly undid his belt. He toed off his shoes, peeled off his socks. He stripped right down to his pants. The flat was cool, the cool evening air wafting in through the old windows, and his skin, tinged gold in the glow of the desk lamp, took on added texture as goosebumps climbed up his legs to his neck.

When he looked up again, Sherlock was looking at him. At him, not through him. _There we go_. Sherlock's eyes raked over John's body, and although part of him was still far off, shut off in an unattainable place, the part of him that was present was intrigued, and aroused. His pupils were dilated, but his blinks were slow, like he was half-asleep, and maybe he was.

"John."

John didn't say a word. What could he say? There was no place for language, no words that would make sense of this wretched spectacle, so he stayed silent.

He walked over to Sherlock's chair instead, and clambered onto his lap. Sherlock furrowed his brow. John simply shoved his face forcefully into the space between Sherlock's ear and his curls, and inhaled deeply.

John's throat tightened as felt the slide of cotton against his naked chest, the rise of Sherlock's ribs that meant he had was about to speak.

"Shut up," John muttered, dragging his lips across Sherlock's jaw to place a kiss on a freckle there. He fell deeper into Sherlock as the detective let out the breath he'd taken in, his lean body becoming concave.

John nibbled and licked his way up his lover's jaw and brought his hands up to his neck, trailing his nails downwards into the collar of the shirt.

"I didn't say anything," breathed Sherlock. He closed his eyes and turned his head aside, baring more of his neck for John's mouth.

Eventually Sherlock's hands came up and began undoing the buttons of his own shirt - each time one was freed, it abruptly opened a fraction more, as John pushed it open with unnecessary force. A soft huff escaped Sherlock as John's teeth grazed lightly over his earlobe.

"You're thinking," John said. His voice was gravelly and rough. "It's annoying."

John ground his hips forward then, and stopped Sherlock's moan in his throat by pushing his head forcefully against the chair's back with the force of a kiss. Sherlock's hands landed on John's thighs, restless, rubbing wide circles into his naked skin.

John's eyes stung and his chest ached as he slipped Sherlock's shirt tenderly off of his pale shoulders, and undid his belt. He pushed his hands down the back of Sherlock's trousers and lifted him by the buttocks. They both gasped as their groins pressed together.

"John," Sherlock said against his lips, "what are you - _ohh..._ " John quickly dragged Sherlock trousers halfway down his thighs, and palmed him through the thin cotton of his pants. He found that the movement  momentarily warded off the pain. Sherlock's eyes struggled to stay open. His breathing came in short bursts through his nose.

John cherished the small, almost trivial power he had over the detective. Sherlock refused to be tamed - this was common knowledge. While John couldn't stop Sherlock from leaving if he had it in his mind to do it, he could hold him close and make him forget, if only for a moment, the wild and whirring world of London that called his name steadily with a concrete heartbeat. As it was, John drank up the sensations like a gasping breath of a drowning man - Sherlock's panting breath against his chin, the almost-pain in his knees as he kept himself straddling the taller man, the burning hands that left him shivering as they roamed the expanse of his back - and committed them to memory.

John's hands tugged at the waistband of Sherlock's pants, distended and slightly damp near the top, and snuck his hand inside. Sherlock keened softly as John tugged at him, sliding the warm skin over the solid weight. A hand grabbed John's wrist suddenly. Sherlock's face wrinkled in concentration. He was attempting to regain control despite his body's reaction, which was to thrust minutely up into John's hand.

Sherlock's low, ragged voice spouted off deductions, his preferred leverage.

"The clothes you stripped out of, same as earlier. Smells like cigar smoke and very expensive cleaning product. Diogenes Club, then. Spoke to my brother did you? He upset you. What did he say? Irrelevant, likely untrue. Your pants. Worn, falling apart, you don't like them. Except... the last time you wore them, we... you've kept them apart ever since.You don't wear them. You weren't wearing them this morning."

He stopped then, contemplating the facts in his head. John could see him thinking. It was reassuring. The thought that it might be his last chance to see it, however, made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Sentiment," said John, quietly.

Sherlock looked up, his faced relaxing in the way it does when he's solved a particulary difficult puzzle.

"Oh."

They sat there, silent, John's hand motionless but still wrapped around Sherlock's cock. They were still breathing heavily; their bodies cried out for more friction, but their hearts demanding stillness, an unspoken moment of mourning for what would be lost in the cold light of day.

"Can't tell me what you're up to, can you?"

Sherlock's gaze flitted down to fix on John's collarbone.

"Just tell me you'll be back," John asked instead. _Please give me this, just this._

Sherlock met John's stare, now, his eyes shining. He simply reached up to grasp John's neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock murmured against his lips. His voice already sounded distant. It felt, to John, like the beginning of the end.

 ***

John didn't say "I'll miss you," or "I love you", because Sherlock knew.

He didn't even ask him not to leave.

He simply made love to his fragile detective in the only way you can, when you know it's the end: slowly, and with all the tenderness his body could muster.

He brought Sherlock to the edge of orgasm as many times as possible. His mind knew the end was inevitable, but his stubborn heart hoped, beyond all hope, that it would be John (simple, _ordinary_ John) who would be the one to freeze time.

Instead, they succumbed to bliss, and sleep, in the blue light of dawn.

***

John was woken the next morning by the buzzing sound his mobile made against the floor.

The vibration echoed in the otherwise empty flat.

John was lying on the couch, still half-dressed from the previous night. He shivered a bit, and gathered the blanket he around him tightly. _Had Sherlock placed it there?_

He stretched out an arm to grab his phone.

_Bart's, Lab 402. Come at once. SH_

***

When John arrives back to the flat late on a cold Wednesday night, he's frozen to the bone and raw from a rough day at the surgery. As usual on days like this, he doesn't even take off his shoes before he beelines for Sherlock's room.

He sits there for a moment, thawing in the dark, and reaches for the red fabric - but he grasps nothing but air.

It takes a moment for John to register the loss; then his heart starts racing wildly, in his chest and in his ears.

Three years.

For three years, they'd rested in the same place.

John pads through the kitchen, and the living room, cautious and listening carefully for signs of danger. There are none.

John climbs the stairs. His bedroom door is ajar.

On his bed lies a familiar figure - looking worn and bruised, but resolutely alive, his stomach rising and falling with sleepy breaths. His long fingers are curled around a small bundle of red fabric, and he clutches it to his heart.


End file.
